


Road Pizza bike shop

by alexiel_neesan



Category: DCU
Genre: Alternate Universe, Bike Shop, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-10
Updated: 2015-02-10
Packaged: 2018-03-11 07:35:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3319310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alexiel_neesan/pseuds/alexiel_neesan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Jason the bike mechanic and Tim’s the bike messenger that keeps fucking up the fork on his bike because he gets doored about twice a week."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Road Pizza bike shop

**Author's Note:**

> A long time ago, my dearest Partner in Crime said "The road bike AU though.
> 
> I’m always torn between Tim being the bike mechanic, Jason the bike thief that steals the wrong asshole’s bike -
> 
> or Jason the bike mechanic and Tim’s the bike messenger that keeps fucking up the fork on his bike because he gets doored about twice a week."
> 
> And so I wrote it for her. Originally posted at [my tumblr.](http://alyyks.tumblr.com/post/87245433143)

 

It’s Tuesday, so the first person in the shop aside from Jay is Tim.

Tim and his bike, Tim and his finally-fully-grown beard, Tim and his sleeves tattoos and his knees grated raw.  
  
From behind the door on legs that serves as a counter, Jay’s torn between bellowing, because Tim's a menace for that bike of his and Jay should take it from him and refuses to repair that fucking fork again, and wincing, ‘cause nobody’s knees should look like that. Nobody, and Jay’s including the fucking bike thieves and the poor bastard of an almost burglar who broke into the shop two months ago.  
  
Really, Tim’s the one being a goddamn menace for himself. And it’s sad, that Tim just has to stand in front of that counter and Jay just has to say: “The usual?”  
  
He gets: “The usual.”  
  
“ 'Really wish you’d stop getting fucking doored,” says Jay, ‘cause why change the script. A voice that sounds suspiciously like Steph, who works there the weekends and who is arguably one of Jay's best friends, says _“Doing the same thing over and over is a sign of insanity!”_ in his head.  
  
Jay grabs the bike, sighs in despair at the sight of the front wheel, sighs even more at the sight of the fork and the way it’s bended where no bike fork should be bended.  
  
“I wish I’d stop getting doored, too,” replies Tim.  
  
“ ‘Suppose you want that as soon as possible?”  
  
“Yeah. Please.”  
  
Jay looks up. Tim’s kind of white, and from closer, his knees are really raw. Fresh raw. Jay’s done some street pizza on himself more than once, and Tim’s are recent.  
  
“Hey moron, when did that happen?”  
  
“On the way back?”  
  
“The way back from where— sit the fuck down before I make you do it.”  
  
There aren’t many places to sit. The public shop is tiny, basically located in a basement, filled to burst with road bikes and the odd fixie and bikes Jay cobbles together from parts, then the shelves of parts ready to sell, some easy to rotate merchandising, Steph’s goddawful flyers for everything (he says this with love), the door-counter and, on Steph and Tam’s insistence, a monstrosity of a red and black armchair they brought to him from whichever dumpster or tourist trap they found it. Jay regularly says he needs better friends.  
  
The armchair comes in handy at the moment. Tim falls into it, looking like one more minute upright was going to end with his skinny ass on the floor. Not that his ass is actually skinny, he’d make a piss-poor bike messenger if that was the case. Not that Jay’s noticed.  
  
Jay goes back to the bike, tallying up the hours and the cost of the repairs he can see. Tim never balks at the price. Jay’s not in the business of drying up bike messengers, couriers, deliveries and students. They got enough troubles without adding an asshole mechanic. Jay only ramps up the prices on the rich assholes who want customs and will use them twice. They have a look. It keeps Jay happily in parts and the A/C up in his apartment.  
  
“Y’need the first aid?” Jay doesn’t look up from the wheel— gonna have to replace it, might be able to save the air chamber and the tyre, but the metal was lost.  
  
When Tim moves, it’s slow, and deliberate. The first aid kit is under the door-counter, behind Jay, and Jay doesn’t like fast unexpected moves near him. Everyone  learns that fast.  
  
The first aid kit is another feature of the shop that make Jay’s a favorite of the area.  
  
The first aid kit is well filled and used way too fucking often by Tim.  
  
Tim. Comes in twice a week, usually got his ass doored, has a sleeve of mechanical engineering up one arm, a sleeve of trees and figures down the other, a beard that starts ratty as all hell then explode into lumberjack perfection, piercing blue eyes, dry sense of humor.  
  
'S’fucking cliché, it’s what it is.  
  
“You wanna go to Neon Brothers Saturday?”  
  
Tim looks as surprised as Jay at the words. But he leaves looking more alive that he came in, with a bike Jay’s making him rent, gauze and tape on his knees, and a date on Saturday.  
  
It’s Tuesday.


End file.
